


All Shadows Pass Away

by Sixpence_Jones



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2018-04-20 09:18:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4782020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sixpence_Jones/pseuds/Sixpence_Jones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was written for the SS/HG exchange in 2012.  It was a gift for delphipsmith and could well be considered as a sequel to her story "A Price Beyond Rubies"</p>
<p>The prompt was as follows:<br/>After the war and his recovery Severus has totally rejected magic and, surprisingly, retreated to a Muggle monastery in a remote area. Why did he reject magic? Why did he turn to a Muggle monastery, of all things? Hermione is determined to bring him back to the world -- why? Does she persuade him not to forsake his magical heritage? I don't require a happy ending, just a logical one. Also, I will not be offended by any treatment of Christianity whether pro, con or neutral, so long as the story supports it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DelphiPsmith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DelphiPsmith/gifts).



> I am grateful to Delphipsmith for her gracious permission to use an excerpt from her story in my prologue and this text is written in italics. 
> 
> Also, my thanks and much love to my support team: anoesis; lyreflowers and meladara. It was fun, ladies, and I will remember it always xxx
> 
> Finally, my thanks to talesofsnape who offered to make me a banner for this story. I think it is beautiful, and perfect for the story x

    

  
  
  
  


**Prologue: May 1998**

  
  
  
In all the bewildering mess that followed the battle, through the clinging hugs and the muffled weeping, Hermione's clogged brain latched onto one thought. As Luna distracted wandering eyes from Harry's disappearance by waving her hands and squawking about Blibbering Humdingers, Hermione took the chance as it presented itself, slipped the leash of Ron's arms and made for the Shack.  
  
She was too late. He was gone. Instead she found Draco, shaken but resolute. He refused her battering questions and told her only that his family had taken care of it all. He glared icily at her gathering rage and informed her bluntly that the Order could not be trusted to shield the Headmaster. That he needed older and stronger, more ruthless protectors than she could provide.  
  
Struck by the truth of it, she agreed. Draco softened momentarily at her despairing acceptance and brushed awkward fingers against her shoulder in a clumsy gesture of sympathy. Then he neatly twisted away into thin air.  
  
Hermione sat on the filthy, blood-soaked floor and accepted the Headmaster's fate. She tried to accept hers, too. She had a life to find and this did not include Severus Snape, no matter what the Mirror of Erised had told them all those months ago. That spellbound night when she had discovered his true self. Her tired mind slid back over to her Sixth year easily. The past was safe at least.  
  


***

She had been desperate to hide from Lavender and Ron, sure that they were about to indulge in another of their nauseating displays, so she had fled down a corridor away from them and had slipped into an empty classroom.  
  
Turning, she had come face to face with the Mirror of Erised almost as if it had been waiting for her.  
  
_The Mirror was draped... but she went straight to it and without hesitation pulled the dust sheet off it. The glass gleamed like a pool of water held vertical; it shimmered faintly as she placed herself directly in front of it and looked into the depths._  
  
_This time the mist cleared almost at once. A shape coalesced behind her in the Mirror: a man, tall, with long dark hair and eyes black and fathomless as a starless night. She felt no surprise when she saw the familiar face, only a sense of rightness. He stood close behind her reflection, his hands resting gently on her waist. Black robes hung in silky folds from shoulders broader than she remembered. His face was pale but calm, without the tension and venomous wit she was accustomed to, but it was unmistakeably..._  
  
Severus Snape. And only moments later the man himself had caught her with his usual uncanny awareness of students investigating things that should be left alone. He had been so bitter, so very angry. Regardless of her protestations, he had torn into her mind and seen what she had found in the glass. He was stunned and the fact that he was so defenceless against her vision made her equally so. As his demeanor changed from abrasive and harsh to so very, very vulnerable and so gentle that she found she could not resist.  
  
_Her eyes closed so he wouldn't see, but it was too late. The memories were there, open to his view. All of them. She felt him stiffen in surprise, heard a quick intake of breath as he gripped her shoulders so tightly_  
  
_But when he spoke after a long moment, his voice was hoarse, disbelieving._  
  
_"This is what you desire? Despite all you know of me, of my past service to the Dark Lord. Despite the suspicion in which your friends – and many of my colleagues – hold me. Despite my bitterness, my anger, my cruelty. Despite everything."_  
  
_"Yes," she whispered. Her nerves tingled with a strange combination of cold and heat where his body pressed against hers._  
  
_"Open your eyes," he whispered harshly, urgently. "Let me see."_  
  
_She looked. She met the eyes of the Mirror-Snape, sensing the real one looking back at her through her own eyes, a reflection of a reflection, a longing and a loneliness that echoed her own._  
  
_"I have given you no reason to trust me, and every reason to hate me," he said slowly. "And yet..."_  
  
_"And yet. Yes." She shivered involuntarily, her body responding to what her eyes perceived, as the Mirror-Hermione tilted her head and the Mirror-Snape bent his own to brush his lips across the sensitive skin of her neck...and then she felt breath warm on her neck as life became a reflection of the Mirror and he began to kiss her, and then there was nothing but love born of perfect trust, and the passion of a condemned man momentarily reprieved._  


***

  
  
As she came back to the present and the mess all around her, Hermione rubbed her eyes, they felt as stiff as cardboard from all the tears they had shed that day. Apparently she still had more to weep.  
  
Six months after that wondrous moon-kissed night, he killed Dumbledore and Hermione went reeling in betrayal and shock. She tried to sense what she knew in her soul about the man she loved but failed to reconcile it all with the actions of the murderer on the Astronomy Tower. Eventually she had locked it all away, compartmentalised it in an effort to get on with day to day survival in the face of an escalating war  
  
Now, in the aftermath of battle and with all the confusion of the past day, the past year raging within her, she tried again to kill the longing for him that lived within her. And again she failed to do so.  
  
She peeled herself off the floor, exhausted beyond belief. Severus Snape must do what he had to. So would she. One step at a time, day by day, hour by hour if she must. She would wean herself off him. _Just... keep... going_.  
  
She made it back to the Great Hall before she fainted.  
  


***

  
  
'We have to hide him,' Narcissa whispered.  
  
'Won't the cellars do?' her husband replied.  
  
'Too cold, too damp and too well known now. The Aurors will not hesitate to rip the place to pieces.'  
  
'Let me think,' he said. 'Can he be moved safely?'  
  
'Yes, I have healed him as best I can. He will live but, Lucius, his recovery will take months and we cannot keep him here. They will want him for trial.'  
  
'We owe him much. Without him, Draco would have died.'  
  
'The Chateau?'  
  
'No good. Our properties are all a matter of public record and anyone of them can be breached. Especially now.'  
  
'What we need is a place that the Ministry has forgotten about.'  
  
There was a soft sound, like a kiss.  
  
'Clever girl, Cissa. Make him ready. There is one place. A place where the Ministry would not think to look if you gave them a thousand years.'  
  


***

  
Vespers was Father Andrew's favourite service of the day. They were all lovely, of course, each with their own particular charm: from the bemused peace of Vigils in the small hours, to the touching goodnight kiss of Compline after supper, but there was a majesty to Vespers that kept him in awe still even after all these years.  
  
He had just led the brothers through a ringing psalm and they had given it their all. The swooping notes were only just fading away and he gathered himself to launch once more into the sung service when the angel appeared, stepping out of the ether as delicately as a feather on the wind.  
  
Father Andrew was greatly proud of his small flock when they did not panic or cry out in alarm. Instead they just swayed like summer wheat under a strong wind. There was no mistaking that this apparition was a messenger of the Lord. It was not the first time that one such as he had visited their small community after all.  
  
The angel was only as tall as a man, but he was lit all about him with a halo of white light. His hair was like spun starlight and his eyes like burning sapphires. He swept his gaze across them all and they quivered under his regard. His presence was tremendous and several brothers fell to their knees. In his arms he cradled an unconscious, dark haired man whom he laid with infinite tenderness at the foot of the altar.  
  
The angel fixed the Abbot with a piercing look and spoke in a voice of such power and resounding authority that his words almost made the rafters of the old chapel shudder.  
  
'Care for this warrior. Heal him. Give him a place of safety for as long as he requires it. His name is Severus.'  
  
Then, with a crack like the sudden breaking of a summer storm on the high mountains, he stepped out of reality as absolutely as he had stepped into it.  
  


***

  
The Year Turns.  
  
May.  
He knows he is safe. The linen sheets wrapped tightly around him are stiff, but white as snow and scented with lavender. They hold whispered conversations above him. He does not move.  
  
'How is our patient?'  
  
'Surly, hurting, impatient.'  
  
'Nothing you haven't seen before then.'  
  
'Maybe. This one is different. Emptier somehow. I can't put my finger on it...'  
  
'You are doing well. Pray for him. And let me know when he wakes.'  
  
'Of course.'  
  
June is similar.  
  
July is cloudy, hot and stormy. He tries to leave.  
  
August sees him back in bed. Exhausted.  
  
September.  
He wants to leave, but he cannot. Instead, he hobbles about the infirmary with a cane. His strength is returning, his magic too, but it is taking so long. He flutters and pecks at his attendants like a wounded hawk. He inevitably draws blood, even if it is only metaphorical. It makes no difference. They do not retreat, they do not give up and they don't retaliate either. They smile at him and they mean it. He can tell. It is terribly, terribly unnerving.  
  
October.  
The worst happens. The blood is no longer metaphorical. A young man unthinkingly surprises him from a nap. One word, one instinctive reaction from a tired, battle-scarred man, and yet another human lies dying at his feet. Reeling in shock at what he has done, he is nevertheless still in command of himself to reverse the damage. Blood returns to the body, wounds are closed. The youth is healed in moments. Hardly anyone knows how close the boy came to death. But he knows how dangerous he is.  
  
And he wants to die.  
  
November is blurred.  
  
December.  
They watched him carefully for weeks afterwards. They never let him be alone for more than a few moments at a time. But it is coming to their busiest time of the year and their attention drops for a moment. It is all he needs. He leaves, in the teeth of a storm. He makes for the high mountains. There will be no pursuit. They will not risk it. He is not worth it. The blizzard swallows him whole.  
  
One followed, against all reason. One reached out to him in that white hell. One hand, clasped like steel around his wrist. The grip of a warrior. The grip of a brother. Undone, he holds on and is pulled to safety.  
  
January. He listens.  
  
February. He starts to talk.  
  
March.  
He is given the walled garden. Invited to work there, assured that no one will disturb him. The place is rough. Not neglected, but not tamed either. They show him the Holy Spring. Its water is clear and shockingly cold. He feels the earth beneath his feet. There is power here.  
  
He has made decisions about that too. He has already started the process: it won't be easy and may well cost him his life, but he is a wolf among lambs and he will never cause harm to someone again. He has sworn it.  
  
April is bad.  
  
May is beyond all reckoning.  
  
June brings lavender and the bees and the first sweet fruits of his garden. Although he doesn't yet know it, he too begins to unfurl.  
  
July brings Podge.  
  



	2. About Septimus Keepe

_Eight years later..._

  
The birds had been singing for hours: Dawn came early in the highlands of Scotland in June, but the sky had eased from its dramatic fiery sunrise and had evened out to a high crystalline blue  
  
Hermione sat at her kitchen table, eyes glued on the sky beyond the windowsill, waiting for her parents' owl. Normally a tea drinker, she felt that this morning warranted something more robust, and a large mug of strong black coffee sat in front of her. This was, she decided, far worse than waiting for exam results.  
  
No matter how many times she had gone through this, she never got used to it and probably never would. This was her fourth baby since the war that she had sent out to seek its fortune, and while the first three had been met with gratifying acclaim, she could never silence the horrible voice within her that said that, this time, her efforts would get savaged by the critics and this novel would sink without trace.  
  
It had been a long night.   
  
Laurence, Hermione's agent, had long since given up moaning about Hermione's lack of phone or internet connection. Hermione had equally given up trying to explain to him that her stories would not be given credence if the world knew she was female. She emphasised that she had no desire for contact with the world at large and that she did not care that publicity was an author's lifeblood.   
  
She did not go near the truth – that she was treading a very fine line with the Statute of Secrecy as it was, and that if the Muggles found out that Cameron Fenn, reclusive, middle-aged, ex secret service, best-selling author of the Septimus Keepe series, intelligent but racy thrillers, was really Hermione Granger, a woman barely into her mid twenties - there would be a kerfuffle. If they found out that she was a witch, there would be all hell to pay.  
  
Instead Hermione had declared to her grumpy agent that she rather fancied the idea that a riproaring good yarn was an author's lifeblood and people would buy the book if that was so. If said author's life story was obscure but laced with romantic mystery, so much the better. So far, Hermione's point had been proved. It was immaterial anyway, there was no phone or internet coverage in Hogsmeade, and that was fine with her.  
  
She lifted her mug and saluted no one in particular.  
  
'Here's to you, Septimus Keepe.'  
  
Staring into the black depths of her mug, she missed the first sight of the owl and jumped at the imperious tap on the window. Flustered, she jumped up, fished in the small bowl on the sill for an owl treat and took the small scroll from Flo's leg.   
  
She opened the scroll and was pleased to see that her hand did not shake. A scrap of newsprint fluttered to the floor. She ignored it and read the note.  
  
Her father's flamboyant hand announced:  
  
 _'Good news._  
  
 _All journalists love you. All want to interview you (hard cheese on them) and I think one or two want Septimus' babies._  
  
 _Come straight away, I can't get any sense out of your mother. She is buried in the reviews section of_ The Independent _, weeping with maternal pride._  
  
 _Bring croissants_.'  
  
'Dad,' Hermione murmered fondly. She bent and picked up the newspaper clipping. In large print it crowed:  
  
 _ **Septimus Keepe and the Valley of Kings is a Treasure Indeed!**_  
  
She giggled in excitement and Apparated away to her parent's home.  
  
Richard Granger answered the door with a tea towel draped over one shoulder.  
  
'Don't ask,' he said. 'The dishwasher's exploded. I think your mother fed it too much soap or something because it started vomiting twenty minutes ago and it has only just stopped. Go into the sitting room, she's in there. You know what she's like on Press Day.'  
  
Hermione kissed her father's smooth cheek, inhaling the familiar scent of his aftershave and walked past him into the hall.  
  
Richard placed a hand on his daughter's shoulder, halting her.  
  
'Hand over the croissants and no one will get hurt.'  
  
She handed them over, eyes dancing.  
  
'Go on,' he nodded in the direction of the sitting room. 'I'll bring breakfast through in a minute.'  
  
Not much could be seen of Perdita Granger, but the broadsheet she was holding was twitching suspiciously. Hermione leant over the back of her mother's armchair and pressed a kiss on her honey brown curls.  
  
'Any good, Mum?'  
  
'Oh, darling!' sniffled her mother. 'It's so wonderful!'  
  
Perdita threw the paper down and enveloped her daughter in a comprehensive hug. Hermione laughed, but was glad to accept the embrace as it soothed her frazzled nerves.  
  
Perdita sniffed hard, shook her head, blew her nose and picked up her discarded paper. She waved the _Independent_ at her daughter like a flag.  
  
'They love it...what did they say? I'll find it in a minute.'  
  
'Sparse, elegant prose and insightful commentaries on the culture of Ancient Egypt are balanced with a deadly ride through the criminal underworld,' Richard Granger intoned from the doorway.  
  
'A sure-fire hit with lovers of art history as well as the game boy shoot 'em up generation,' added his wife. 'But that was _The Times_...'  
  
Richard dumped a laden tray on the coffee table.  
  
'I particularly liked: erudite and intelligent conversation with a desperately agonised but wonderfully sexy hero. Septimus Keepe keeps us hanging on his every word,' he said. 'Dare I hope that you modelled Septimus on your dear old Dad?'  
  
Perdita laughed in honest, loving amusement. 'Not even you, darling, can be as acerbic as Hermione's Septimus!'  
  
'But the chicks dig a grumpy git,' Richard said loftily.  
  
'Was that your ditsy receptionist, Dad?'  
  
Richard rolled an expressive eye at his only child.  
  
'That particular pearl came from _The Daily Mail_. Although Mandy is just as fond of Septimus Keepe as any of us.'   
  
Hermione and her mother just giggled.  
  
'Eat your croissants before I do,' he said.  
  
Perdita sighed the sigh of a woman filled with warm buttered croissants and milky coffee, and stroked her daughter's head as it lay pressed against her knee. Hermione was sprawled on the floor, still nose deep in reviews. It seemed that Septimus had indeed struck gold once more, and she basked in the praise that had been showered on her. Although she loved the process of research and writing as always, there was something rare and wonderful about pleasing so many people with her work. If she had bothered with a therapist, no doubt they would have something to say about that, she realised.  
  
It took her a minute to register that her mother had asked her something.  
  
'What's that, sorry, mum?'  
  
'I said, do you have any plans this evening for a celebration? Is Jonathan taking you somewhere nice perhaps?'  
  
'I've just had a lovely celebration breakfast with you,' Hermione replied innocently.  
  
'Told you,' Richard said some what smugly to his wife.  
  
Perdita ignored him and continued to speak to her daughter. 'True and we have enjoyed it. I was just wondering where he is...?'   
  
'Don't pry, Perdy,' her husband murmured.  
  
'I'm sorry,' Perdita said, chastened.   
  
'No, it's alright, Mum. I would have told you soon anyway. Jonathan and I are not together anymore. It's been on the cards for ages, we had a talk, it didn't work out and he left. For good this time.'  
  
'Oh, well, perhaps it was just the strain of the book... You work so hard sweetheart. Perhaps now it's out and doing well...'  
  
'The writing may well have something to do with it, heaven knows, I'm not the easiest person to be around at the best of times,' she smiled at her parents immediate rebuttal of her statement but she continued. 'And I'm a nightmare when the deadline starts looming. But really, there is more to it than that...'  
  
'But he was so sweet,' Perdita said. 'I really thought this one stood a good chance...'  
  
Hermione lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. 'I'm sorry, Mum, but he wasn't what I wanted.'  
  
'Is it still him?' her mother asked gently.  
  
'What?'  
  
'Your mystery man? The one you told us about at the end of the war. The one that you can't get past.'  
  
Hermione had a brief flash of a moonlit night, jet black eyes and a kiss that surely must have stolen her soul.   
  
She turned her face up to her mother's and saw the love and concern shining there and she could not brush that aside.   
  
'Yes,' she admitted. 'Yes, it's him. It is always him and I think I need to accept that and stop trying to replace him. It is better to be alone than make do with someone who is not right for me. It's not fair on anyone.'  
  
'Oh, darling,' Perdita said sorrowfully.  
  
Hermione stroked her mother's fineboned hand, offering her comfort  
  
'It's alright, Mum. It's alright.'


End file.
